


Taste This

by house_of_lantis



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 07:46:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2016783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/house_of_lantis/pseuds/house_of_lantis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter Hale is a chef and restauranteur; Chris Argent is a food blogger. </p><p> </p><p>Originally posted to my Tumblr: http://theserpentgirl.tumblr.com/</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taste This

**Author's Note:**

> All photos found on Google Images. They do not belong to me: 
> 
> 1\. Banner from Google Images.  
> 2\. Teen Wolf/MTV  
> 3\. JR Bourne Twitter/Instagram

[ ](http://s769.photobucket.com/user/house_of_lantis/media/tastethisbanner.png.html)

 

Alpha, 6702 Melrose Avenue, Los Angeles, California

Posted July 24, 2014 by Christopher Argent

 

_Los Angeles boasts some of the best (and worst) restaurants and dining experiences in the world, so when celebrity chef and restaurateur Peter Hale opened Alpha on Melrose Avenue, there was a three-month wait list for reservations. Now even the most in-demand restaurant in LA doesn’t have a three-month long wait list. That’s pretty fucking ridiculous if you ask me. If you want to spot Hollywood A-Listers and B-Listers looking pretentious and pretending like they don’t want to be noticed, Alpha is the place to go. If you’re looking for a fine dining experience, take it to Hatfields or Spago Beverly Hills. Putting your name on a restaurant doesn’t guarantee that the food is going to be worth it. You need to have something to back it up._

_I ordered a plate of fish tacos and when the perky actress-wannabe/waitress set it on the table, I stared at it and saw red. I actually thought about just getting up and leaving. Inside the taco were grilled snapper and a piece of over fried Tempura batter snapper – where the hell did the **fried snapper** escape from? The melted cheese was like glue paste sticking to the lettuce. And the “secret” Peter Hale sauce? It’s fucking mayo. This shit wasn’t fit to serve a starving dog on the street. _

 

[ ](http://s769.photobucket.com/user/house_of_lantis/media/peterandderek.jpg.html)

 

“I’m going to fucking rip his throat out with my teeth,” Peter Hale snarled as he read through the rest of the review on his laptop.

 

“Why are you looking at that now? We need to be checking the construction work for tearing this space down so we can get the architect in here—“

 

“Derek, this is the worst review Argent’s ever given for one of my restaurants. You can’t expect me to just let this go. That man is a predator in our industry,” he said, frowning.

 

“Just have Laura or one of the other lawyers send him a Cease and Desist letter if you—“

 

“Why on earth would I do that? Despite his unwarranted vitriol, Argent is spot on with his restaurant and food reviews. His blog has over 10 million viewers worldwide. It’s obvious that the man has palette knowledge – I’m going to have to go to Alpha to do a unannounced quality check and make sure they’re not actually putting out food that wouldn’t be fit for a homeless animal.”

 

Derek rolled his eyes. “Then why don’t you just invite him over for dinner, make him something extravagant, and do whatever it is that you do to, you know, win him over.”

 

Peter smiled, sitting back in his chair and looking up at his nephew. “That is a brilliant plan.” He narrowed his eyes and looked back on the screen, scrolling down to read the 2,235 comments for the post on TasteThis.com, most of them defending Alpha and the caliber of its menu. “Perhaps I’ll just post to his blog and publicly invite Argent for a home cooked meal, that way he can’t possibly refuse.”

 

_Dear Mr. Argent,_

_I would like to invite you, all expenses paid, to Beacon Hills, CA, where I would like to make you a plate of fish tacos that you will never forget._

_Sincerely,_

_Peter Hale_

 

He clicked on the Submit button and grinned. Now, all he had to do was put together a foolproof plan to seduce Argent with a succulent dish that would make him eat his goddamn words.

 

“Can you flirt with Argent on your own time and get back to work? I’d like to get home at a reasonable hour,” Derek said, checking his iPhone and then tucking it back into his pocket.

 

Peter smirked. “Oh? Does Stiles have a special dinner planned for you tonight?”

 

Derek blushed, the tips of his ears turning red. “That’s none of your business. Now, the north side needs better support structure if you want to have this whole section back here be the storage area…”

 

***

 

 _You can’t buy me off,_ was the immediate response to Peter’s comment.

 

He debated on how to pursue the matter and decided that discretion was the better part of valor and simply emailed Argent a private message.

 

_I assure you, I am Peter Hale. This is my cell phone number: 323-555-2738. And if you would like to work through a third party travel agent, just let me know and I’ll pay for the travel arrangements._

A few moments later, his iPhone pinged to show that he had received a text message.

_Text me the address for where to meet. I’m in LA, I’ll drive up to BH._

 

It was obvious from the surprised look on Argent’s face that he hadn’t expected Peter to text him his home address in Beacon Hills. Peter was waiting for him at the doorway after buzzing in his truck at the gates. He hadn’t expected Christopher Argent to be an older, handsome man. He was expecting to meet a young, punk asshole who thought he knew about food; perhaps a culinary school dropout. But Argent looked Californian tan and wore dark jeans, work boots, and a green tee-shirt that showed off his arms and allowed a peek at his tattoo.

 

Peter was right not to dress up. He wore his favorite white tee-shirt, a hole on the collar from where he tugged at it, a kitchen tea towel flung over his shoulder. His niece, Cora, called it ghetto home wear but Peter spent his professional life in his chef’s jackets, properly pressed and buttoned. At home, he was barely presentable.

 

“You must be Christopher Argent. Peter Hale. Welcome to my home,” he said, holding out his hand.

 

“It’s Chris,” he said, shaking Peter’s hand in a firm, calloused grip. Another surprise. He followed Peter inside and looked around the open floor plan. “Nice place. Great natural light.”

 

“Thank you,” Peter said, grinning over his shoulder at Chris. “I must admit that the kitchen is my favorite room in the house. Come in, take a load off and have a seat, I’m almost finished with the first course.”

 

He went back to the oven and checked on the two perfectly grilled steaks that he was keeping warm as Chris sat down on the stool.

 

“Well, thanks for the invite and everything, but what’s this really about? You know I’m not going to delete my review of Alpha. And since I don’t have sponsorship, all of my reviews are honest and real.”

 

“I didn’t ask you here to buy you off, as you said in your comment,” he said, checking to make sure that his special cream sauce was the right consistency. “I’m cooking you dinner. There’s no ulterior motive.”

 

Chris raised his eyebrow.

 

“Besides, even if I tried, you’d only write about it on your blog.”

 

Chris smiled and gave a nod. He watched as Peter crossed the room to the stainless steel fridge. “This still might end up on my blog anyway.”

 

Peter laughed. “Honestly, it’s your call. I’m just offering dinner. Would you like a drink?”

 

“Do you have beer?”

 

Peter opened the fridge. “Would you prefer light or something stout?”

 

“Stout, please.”

 

He pulled out two bottles of Avery Mephistopheles’ Stout, popped the lids for both on the counter, and handed a bottle to Chris. He tapped the neck of his bottle against Chris’s and grinned. “Life.”

 

“Thanks. Health,” Chris said, turning the bottle to read the label. He laughed, looking up at Peter. “Seriously?”

 

“It’s the best stout beer in the world.”

 

“It has a picture of the devil on it.”

 

“And it’s 17% alcohol.”

 

Chris whistled, cocking his head to the side and giving Peter a teasing smile. “Trying to get me drunk?” He took a curious sip, his eyebrows shooting up. “Damn, that’s the best stout I’ve ever tasted. Has a bit of chocolate and something else…is that cherry?”

 

“You do have a very good palette,” he said, smiling. “Drink it slowly; I have steaks in the oven and that should help.”

 

“So what’s this all about, really? I mean, it’s not like a guy like me gets a whole meal cooked for him by a two-star Michelin chef, so what’s your angle?”

 

“How did you start running a food blog? Were you in the industry?”

 

Chris snorted. “Not since I was I was in college. Waited tables and shit like that, so I knew how a kitchen worked, how a restaurant worked. It’s no big deal. My daughter got me into it actually.”

 

Peter listened as he carefully plated the warmed soft taco shell onto two plates, spooned on the sauce, and placed the perfectly fried Tilapia filets on the sauce. He tossed shredded lettuce and spinach on top.

 

“Daughter?”

 

“Mm-hmm…Allison, she’s at Berkeley. She took an Intro to Journalism course her first year and she wanted to do a restaurant review blog, so we went to about a dozen restaurants all over the city and Allison took pictures and wrote hilarious commentary on everything from the food to the service to the environment.” Chris said, smiling to himself. “So when she finished her final project, she stopped working on it, so I asked her if I could take it over.”

 

“So is that your full-time job?”

 

Chris laughed. “Hardly, but it probably seems like it. I’m actually in the military tech field. I work on the blog to blow off steam.”

 

“Military tech…ah, you mean military weapons. Government contractor?”

 

“Something like that.”

 

Peter smiled, knowing when someone wanted to shut down a topic of discussion without explicitly saying so. Instead, he handed over a white, square plate to Chris.

 

“What’s this?”

 

“Fish taco,” Peter said, smiling. “It’s what you should’ve been served at Alpha.”

 

[ ](http://s769.photobucket.com/user/house_of_lantis/media/peterfood.jpg.html)

 

“Come on, Peter, I’m sure it’s going to taste great because you made it. And I’m not here to tell you how to do your business in the back of the house, but—“

 

“Taste it.”

 

He watched as Chris set the plate down in front of him, carefully rolling the soft tortilla and taking a hearty bite of it at one end. He chewed slowly, looking at Peter. His eyes closed and he gave a deep groan of appreciation.

 

_“Mmmmmm…”_

 

Peter stared at him, a shiver of pleasure coiling low in his belly. He focused on finishing off the puree, got the steaks out of the oven to rest, and started plating the other components to the dinner dishes that he’d set aside.

 

“Damn. That was delicious,” Chris said, softly. “I like that you used simpler components. I could taste the flavors blended together; and your sauce, I can’t quite identify it, but it has a smoked flavor…is it bacon?”

 

“Well, that would be revealing my secret recipe, wouldn’t it?” He said, slicing the steak and checking to see that it was perfectly medium rare. “And it is not mayo, Chris.”

 

Chris chuckled, taking a sip of his beer. “Just how closely did you read my review?”

 

“You know, you made a good point that just because my name is on the front of the house, it doesn’t mean that I can rely on it for when it comes to the back of the house. I should’ve visited Alpha months ago to check for quality standards,” he said, picking up both plates and walking around the stove.

 

Chris gave a nod, twirling his beer bottle in the air in agreement.

 

He set them down on the counter and sat down next to Chris. “ _Bon appetit_.”

 

“Thanks,” Chris said, smiling at Peter. “I mean it, thanks a lot for this. I’m probably sure I’ve never had better.”

 

At any other given time, Peter would’ve responded with an appropriate remark, but knowing that Chris Argent had a family, he let it go, and with a pleased sigh, watched as Chris cut into the first slice of beef.

 

***

 

After dinner, Peter invited Chris for Crème Brule and port wine on his back patio. The summer nights in Beacon Hills were cool, a breeze coming from the forests that line along his backyard property. He refused to put up a fence, preferring to have the openness of the wild behind him, even though he often received hungry wildlife visitors to his myriad of vegetable gardens.

 

“How did you get started in the restaurant business?”

 

Peter laughed, leaning into his patio chair, sipping the sweet wine in the small, delicate crystal glass. “So we’ve come to that part of the evening? Is this an interview for your blog?”

 

“I’m off the clock,” he said, propping his feet up on another chair.

 

“As Chef Bourdain once said, the kitchen is the last, glorious meritocracy, a place where anybody with the skills and the heart is welcomed and beloved. I didn’t go to culinary school, I made my bones, so to speak, in some of the best kitchens of the world. I worked on the line, like every other chef, and developed my palette, learned how to cook, learned what to cook, and learned technique. My sister, Talia, had a friend who was a restaurateur in Berlin and I worked under him for years, learning my trade from the ground up. He was one of my first investors when I opened Hale’s in Beacon Hills. It’s my flagship restaurant, my first love, which is why I live here and not in any of the other cities where my restaurants are. My nephew, Derek, and I are going to open a new restaurant in San Francisco where he’ll take over as my Executive Chef.”

 

“Did you name it yet?”

 

Peter grinned. “Derek asked if he could name it; though I suspect he’ll probably name it after his partner.”

 

“That’s not a terrible thing.”

 

“The boy’s name is Stiles,” Peter said, exasperatedly.

 

Chris snorted. “What the hell is a Stiles?”

 

“That is exactly my point.”

 

He enjoyed the lull, the quietness of the evening, and wished he had cigars to share with the port. Chris Argent looked like a man who knew how to appreciate a good cigar. Perhaps next time.

 

“It’s getting late,” Chris said, taking a deep breath. “I should hit the road soon.”

 

“Of course. Your wife is probably expecting you.”

 

He watched as Chris set his glass on the patio table. “Actually, I’m a widower. Seven years now.”

 

“My condolences.” Peter said, keeping his voice neutral and low, but feeling his heart quicken and his skin flush. Damn it, that just wasn’t fair.

 

Chris grinned at him. “It’s fine; I’ve had time to process it.”

 

He turned and looked at Chris, smiling at him with a small grin, blue eyes bright from the flickering candlelight on the patio table. He slapped his hands on his thighs and stood up slowly. Peter rose with him, pushing down the disappointment and offering him a smile.

 

“I can’t thank you enough, Chef Peter,” Chris said, holding out his hand. “Everything was delicious.”

 

Peter took it and met his eyes. “The pleasure was mine.”

 

He walked Chris to the front door, opening it for him.

 

“Have a safe—“

 

Chris pushed him against the door and kissed him. It wasn’t hard or forceful, but just a press of his lips on him, warm and dry, waiting for Peter to make the next move.

 

Fuck. Yes.

 

Peter grabbed him by the belt loops and dragged Chris closer, feeling the heat of him, and opened his mouth and kissed him the way that he had wanted all night, every time Chris put food in his mouth, every time he leaned his head back to drink his beer, every time he licked the sauce or juices off his lips.

 

Chris kissed along his cheek and muffled his laugh against Peter’s shoulder, pressing his forehead against Peter’s neck. “Ohmygod, my daughter warned me not to do this.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“When I told Allison that I was driving up to meet you, she showed me your picture and told me to ‘behave myself.’”

 

Peter smiled, slipping his hand behind Chris’s lower back and tucking his fingers under the shirt, caressing the soft skin along the edge of his jeans. “Well, then, I suppose you are just going to have to _behave yourself_ appropriately in my bed.”

 

Chris chuckled, raising his eyebrow. “Is that so?”

 

“Mmmm-hmm…I think it’s time that I did a little tasting of my own.”

 

 

The End.

 


End file.
